Ana watched all the silent byplay in the rearview mirror. They were like momentary snapshots as she shifted from looking at the road to checking out the players.
“Do you think it's Declan, Mr. Holden?” Ana asked softly. When Callahan made a noise of denial, Ana held up a hand. “Let him speak. He's one of the newest to our team. He's observant. He hasn't been with us long enough for it to
be
him, so he's a good one to ask.”
“I don't think it's him, but I can't rule him out. Someone made the transmission Callahan found, and it came from inside our compound. That means it could be anyone there, from one of the security team to one of the staff.
“He's a low probability, though,” Holden added. “You don't shoot up your inside man. And if you're the inside man, you don't shoot to kill. From what I hear, Georgiade thinks Dec actually got a kill shot. Maybe two.” When Gates raised an eyebrow, looking doubtful, Holden crossed his arms defensively. “Just because we haven't found the bodies, doesn't mean they're not there.”
Callahan looked belligerent too, that anyone, especially Gates, would question Declan's loyalty.
“Bax is on the lookout for gunshot victims at the local hospitals,” Ana commented, trying to find neutral ground.
“Wouldn't go there, you know that,” Gates interjected.
“Would if they were dying, or dead,” Ana stated.
Before Gates could answer, his laptop beeped a response.
“Let's see what the Mystery Lady was talking about.” He scanned the site, which had finally loaded in English. “Athens, birth records, data needed,” he said, tapping keys and inputting Dav's birth date and his mother's and father's names.
Lines of script filled the pages and one showed an official-looking document. “Birth certificate,” Gates said, scrolling past it to search for information they didn't know.
“There's Niko,” he said, pointing to another line of text, another birth certificate.
“Go further back,” Ana urged. “Look at his father, or his mother.”
“Or Niko's mother.” Callahan spoke for the first time.
“Right,” Gates said. Without looking up, he said, “Your turn's in fifteen minutes or so, give or take. Holden, watch the time.”
“Yessir.”
“What year are you on?” Ana asked.
“I'm in the sixties, and there's nothâ” Gates stopped in midword.
“What?” Three voices chorused the word.
Chapter 18
The final part of the tunnel seemed to last an eternity. He had managed to walk in the dark for several hours, switching on the light every once in awhile to be sure he could find the last drop shaft.
The beam of light was even weaker and wavered in the darkness. He shone it forward, just as he took a step.
“Ahhh,
shit
!” he exclaimed, and turned the step into a leap as he found empty space beneath his feet. Off balance, he landed on his left leg, with the right slipping on the edge of the abyss.
He threw himself forward, landing hard on elbows and hands.
The pain was excruciating. Every bone in his body rattled, every bruise and slice reawakened to vibrant, throbbing pain. His ankle was twisted and he could only pray he hadn't broken that, too.
Cursing and groaning, he groped for the flashlight. Its fading beam showed his trousers torn at the knees, but the other effects were mere pain rather than the bloody mess he'd expected.
“More bruises. Soon I will be able to connect the dots of my bruises,” he said aloud, needing to hear something besides the endless silence and his own thoughts. “I should talk to myself more often,” he decided. “At least when I'm not complaining.”
He'd often wondered about people who talked to themselves. Now he understood. At least in this situation, it kept fear at bay.
“Get up, Davros,” he ordered. “Keep moving. Pain or no pain, you don't keep the lady waiting.”
He struggled to his feet, remembering to watch his head in this part of the tunnel. It narrowed again here, briefly.
“It is good that you have a memory for places, otherwise you would be explaining to God why you were stupid enough to get dead and leave Carrie up there all alone.” He grunted as he wavered into the wall, bouncing his shoulder off it again. “I do not think God would approve.”
He stopped and uncapped the canteen. “Carrie said to keep drinking water.” He thought of her as he drank. “I need some of her aspirin. I really do.” He winced as he raised the container up, draining it. The motion had pulled loose the tatters of his shirt and reopened the cuts. He felt the warmth of blood on his back, slipping down to soak his belt and pants.
“At this rate, I'll leave a blood trail everywhere I go.” He opened the second canteen, drained most of it as well. “Not much farther though.”
As he stumbled on in the darkness, he prayed she had made it to the campsite, prayed she would be there.
Be there, be there, betherebetherebetherebethere.
The words became a mantra in his mind and he put one foot in front of the other to the rhythm they created. He was so intent on putting his head down and staying upright, that he didn't notice the light.
When he realized he could see his dusty, ruined loafers, he stopped. For a moment he simply stared at them. They were disgraceful, dirty, with warped edges and twisted, shrunken tassels.
Then it occurred to him. He could see them.
His slowed thought processes took a second longer to compute the sight, correlate it with the fact that there was light enough by which to see.
Dav looked up. Ahead, perhaps a hundred yards, lay the entrance to the cell.
“I made it,” he whispered
. But would she be there? Had Carrie made it?
He had to know. Now.
Breaking into a stumbling run, he wheezed down the corridor. The wheezing worried him in an abstract sort of way. Had he broken a rib? Perhaps the dust.
It didn't matter. There was light.
At the last minute, he stopped himself before he burst into the open cell. The movement, the adrenaline of his short run, had cleared his thinking somewhat. Enemies could lie above, anything could have happened while he traversed the interminable dark.
He stopped cold as he got to the end of the tunnel, squinting as the intense light made his eyes water.
The pivoting door was cool against his heated skin. He peered around the back edge of it and saw that the grate was clear. Squinting through the dust and sweat in his eyes, he realized that the lock was gone.
Someone had moved the body off the grate and removed the lock. His heart leaped up.
He had to take a chance.
“Carrie-mou?” he called softly. “Carrie? Are you out there?” He tried again, louder. Then a third time, at a near shout.
Despair hit him like a sledgehammer when she didn't answer. He moved into the cell, noting the blackened, curdled dirt where the kidnapper's blood and other things had dropped and pooled. The grate was heavily encrusted with gore as well, and though it had dried and blackened, the smell was enormous. Evidently, the body, what was left of it, had been pulled off the grate and into the dirt.
“Carrie?” he said it again, yelling this time. What did he have to lose? “Carrie!”
From above, rustling, the pounding sound of running feet.
“Dav? Dav, is that you?” her frantic voice called, and her shadow fell over him as she knelt by the grate. Squinting against the light, he raised a hand to block the glare.
Part of him nearly wept. He had thought he might never hear her voice again, see her again.
As that thought hit, so did the words in the darkness come back to him.
She could be part of it, in on it.
It really didn't matter. He would trust his gut, and trust her. And if he died for it, so be it.
“Oh, Dav,” she sighed his name. “You made it. I knew you could do it.”
A grin split his face, causing him to wince as hitherto unknown injuries made themselves known. Evidently, at some point, he'd split his lip because the scabbed wound reopened now, and he felt the sting of salt and blood.
“It's me,” he replied, belatedly realizing she would want an answer. “I made it.”
“Oh, thank God!” Her heartfelt words were accompanied by a dragging, grating sound. “I have the ladder. I'm going to try to lift the grate again, but even if I can't, I can get the ladder down to you. Then you can push and I can pull to get the grate open.”
“Good. Thank you,” he added. “Are you all right? Not hurt?” He grimaced at the question. Of course she was hurt. “I should say, no further injuries, I hope.”
Her laughter held an edge of tears to it, but it was laughter. “No. I'm eaten up with bug bites and scratched, and if I never see whatever this country is again, I'll be happy. Otherwise, I'm okay. There's food in the building here. Even some cold drinks, because there's power in the damn place, believe it or not. I've been saving you some.”
The thought of cold water, a cold drink of any kind, and something to eat made him unaccountably want to weep again. When her beautiful face appeared above him, over the grate, he conversely wanted to whoop with joy.
“You look beautiful,” he said without thinking. “You are beautiful, Carrie-mou. Thank God you're alive.”
She smiled down at him, her hair falling around her face. Her tears fell through the bars, though her face was wreathed in happiness. One dripped down onto his cheek and he touched it with a finger, capturing it on the tip and looking at the perfection of that tear on his torn and bloody hand.
His heart, his gut, which had burned so desperately when she turned him down, felt like it was flipping over. Could he be ... in
love
with her? Was this what it felt like?
He had no answers and no one to ask but the woman who had declared him to be unacceptable. He would have to wait to find out.
“Hang on. I'll have this down to you in a minute,” she said, and with an oomph of effort, she positioned the ladder by the grate. It took four tries to get it through and resting securely on the ground. She tried to heft the grate again, but it rose only a few inches, before she dropped it. “Damn it!” she exclaimed, frustration making her voice raspy and taut.
“You will need something to brace it, Carrie-mou. Then raise it, and brace again. I will climb up and help you.”
“Okay, okay,” she panted, letting the grate slip back into position. “A brace. I can do that. Be right back.”
She disappeared, and he began to climb. It was slow going, even though he wanted to race up the ladder. His hand couldn't grip the side; it was stiff, swollen and he could smell the infection brewing under the bandages. They would have to deal with that as soon as possible.
He got to the top of the ladder and, with his good hand, pushed at the grate. His hand slipped in the dried blood, and he gagged at the stench that arose.
He retreated several rungs to regain control of his empty, but rebellious stomach. It was an agony to wait for her to come back, but the relief when she did was palpable. He felt even more light-headed to see her glorious blue eyes and smudged and dirty face.
To his surprise, she carried a length of pipe.
“Okay, Dav, you push and I'll pull, and I'll shove this under as we go, okay?”
“Good,” he grunted, and climbed up the remaining rungs to set his good hand on the filthy bars. “Ready?”
“On three.” She counted and as she hefted the grate, he pushed and she shoved the pipe in with her foot. The grate was opening, even if it was slow. Thank God.
“This is heavy,” she groaned, shoving again on the count of three. It took them one more try, and finally the iron bars fell away into the grass. Luckily, he had leaned forward against the ladder as he shoved, so he wasn't directly under the hole. With a terrific clatter and clang, the bracing pipe fell in. The reverberant sound sent the nearby buzzards skyward with a squawking chorus that could have woken the very dead they feasted on.
“Oh, my God, Dav, are you okay?” she demanded, her face white, her voice breathless and scared, as she dropped to the dusty ground, reaching for him. “I'm so sorry.”
“Not to worry, Carrie-mou,” he panted, both with exertion and pain. “The ladder is remarkably steady. I'm glad you found it, since I do not think I could have climbed a rope.” Before she could answer, he forced his feet to move, stepping up one more rung. “On second thought,” he grunted, managing another even though his hand, ankle and back were screaming. “To get out of here, I would have climbed barbed wire if necessary.”
She managed a laugh. “I get that, but you're almost out.” She braced her feet on the side of the hole and reached for his good hand.
His other hand screamed in pain as he wrapped it around the rungs, but he didn't care. He was climbing to freedom, to Carrie and sunlight. The all-but-forgotten clothing pack and the rattling canteens hindered him, but he reached the top and as his head and shoulders cleared the cell, he drew a deep breath.
At the moment, freedom smelled of dirt and blood, carnage and the sweat of their exertion, but it didn't matter. It was sweeter than roses. Carrie helped him out, pulling him over the edge. He rolled clear and lay in the clearing's sparse grass for a moment, savoring the feel of sunlight on his skin, and the release from the imprisoning stone.
The smell of death was still pungent, however, so he didn't lie there for long.
“We need to get moving,” Dav said, levering himself up with his good hand. Carrie sat next to him, looking at him. There was something in the way she was looking at him, but he couldn't decipher it.
“There's another Jeep. The keys are still in it.” She hesitated and then said, “I think the driver died right by the car door, when he got out. There's blood all over the inside of the door.”
Dav prayed that the door had shut, otherwise the battery would be dead and the car would be useless unless they could roll-start it on the road. With his hand the way it was, he wasn't sure he could push the vehicle that far.
“Carrie, I believe I could use some more of that aspirin if you still have it,” he said, realizing that he now had access to help. The momentary relief of release and being free were overwhelmed by the headache and heat, which were making his thinking slower than normal.
“Of course. Hang on, I'll get it for you.” She jumped up and then froze where she stood.
Dav pivoted on the ground, sensing her fear and coming to his feet in a rush. He moved to stand in front of her, putting himself between her and the apparition that stood before him.
Standing between them and the road was a man. At least he thought it was a man.
“Dav?” Carrie whispered.
“Stay put,” he urged. The man hadn't said anything yet.
They stood, staring at one another for a few moments. Dav was unwilling to break the silence. In negotiating, he never spoke first.
This was a negotiation.
The man watched them with hooded eyes. His face was smudged with camouflage paint, his clothes were akin to tatters, but strategically placed to help him blend in with the terrain. The cap he wore was also shaggy and hid his hair. The bill shaded his eyes, as did dark sunglasses.